A Tale from Calradia
by SonOfSkyrim22
Summary: An isolated chapter of a possible longer work telling part of the story of Berric Thorne, a noble and honest lord who has been wronged by the powerful Kingdom of Nords


The walls of Alburq Castle stood high and steadfast against the background of an ashen sky in the clearing of a thick mass of lush green pine trees not so far away on all sides. Heavy rains battered the cold grey stones and mortar, and the sparse but harsh winds sent a chill to one's very bones. Sentries atop all sides of the castle began to dash away into the two squat-looking towers at the back end as Berric led his footmen out of the forests. Endless waves of tanned men in cream colored turbans and mail hauberks with orange and red patterned tunics made of fine silk poured from the trees with shields, arming swords, and scimitars at the ready. Matheld and Lezalit marched at his right and left sides, donning fine iron mail with white tabards bearing the same screaming scarlet dragon that was emblazoned upon Berric's own surcoat and the banners that whipped about vigorously in the wind from the ends of wooden lances pointed straight up from the hands of his fiercest warrior, and his finest strategist.

As they approached the wall ahead, Berric could see crossbows between the stones of the battlements wall on the castle face, and their bolts all pointed directly at none other than himself and his two companions. The spikes of the iron portcullis rose from the muddy stone pathway that led inside the walls, and three mounted men rode out to meet the encroaching leader and his bannermen at the gate. Jarl Turya sat between two hardened looking guards, all of them in full mail and arms. The three men towered over Berric and his party, each mounted on brilliant, beautiful white steeds whose coats were matted by the rain. The Jarl's icy stare was characteristic of a Nordic man, but this time it seemed much colder than ever before as he glared through the eyeholes of his spiked helm.

"Berric Thorne! I almost didn't believe it was you. Tell me, why do you come to me with banners raised and forces prepared for siege surrounding my home?" Turya spat in a condescending manner. His frozen gaze was locked on the emotionless eyes that peered back from beneath the soaked chesnut hair that hung over Berric's brow.

"We come in times of war, with tidings of war. Surrender your castle, command your garrison to lay down their arms, and no harm will become of you. Resist, and we will take your lands by force and put you to the sword."

The braided brown beard on Turya's chin pulled tight against his face as he clenched his jaw with violent frustration. "_You_, a turncoat swine, would have the _audacity_ to demand that _I_, a sworn vassal to the most prosperous kingdom in the history of this realm, relinquish the home that my family has held for three generations? I think not, Berric Thorne!"

"Do not be foolish, Jarl. You are surrounded by a force at least tenfold the size of yours. You have no chance of defeating us." Berric's words were true. An army of Sarranid swords had the castle surrounded on all sides as far as the eyes could see until the land gave way to the forest.

"Do not be so sure of yourself. Each Nordic arm that brandishes an axe against the likes of you is worth a hundred of your desert warriors. You will regret this affront, Thorne. I shared my bread, ale, and meat with you. We laughed and drank together during many feasts in my greathall, I offered you the hand of my only daughter, and you threw all of that back at me when you left us for those Vaegiri scum. Tell me, Berric Thorne, what could have possessed you to leave us when we had given you everything a man could want?"

Berric pushed the rain-soaked mop of hair from his forehead with a mail mitten. The deep lines in his haggard, aging face were wrought deep in a stern expression. "You and your kingdom gave me nothing. I sacked castles, but was given none to live in. I took cities by storm, and received an old pillaged squat of a poor fishing village on the front of a war. I gave your daughter lavish gifts, read her songs and poems, and treated her like a just and honest man ought to, and she used me only to relieve Jarl Rayeck of his suitorship. I'm sure you'll remember when I duelled him for her hand. He nearly lopped my arm off, and I put a sword through his chest. Ragnar, your king, sent me into a battle that I could not win and would answer no plea for reinforcements. I was taken prisoner for months, and when I finally escaped, I was met with ridicule for my loss. King Yaroglek has provided me with castles and land, but more importantly, he has given me honor."

Turya's twisted smile had by now become a devious looking crack across his face. "So Vaegirs bought you with a few stones and some land? Maybe even a wench or two as well? Berric Thorne, I pity your-"

The Jarl was given no chance to finish as Berric's voice boomed in heated retort. "I was 'bought' with nothing other than respect! Your kingdom fancied me an errand boy, and set me about doing simpleton's tasks. The other Jarls had small love for a man of common birth, without noble or Nordic blood. I will ask you one more time, Jarl Turya. Surrender, or you and your men will perish."

Turya's grin was gone, and replaced with an enraged grimace coupled with his familiar stare. "So be it, Berric Thorne. Pray I will give you a decent burial. I'd rather have the head of a dog soiling the pikes of my castle walls than yours."

The Jarl and his guards reared and rode away, and the portcullis shrieked and dropped behind them. As Berric turned away from the castle, Lezalit addressed him.

"My lord, are you al-"

"Worry not about me." His lord interrupted abruptly. "I'll be fine when this battle ends." His voice cut like a sabre, and a moment of grim quiet washed over them as they paced back toward the masses of anxious footmen. As he neared the front of his forces, he turned to face the walls again. Not a murmur arose from a single man in his company. As he placed his greathelm with red feathered wings over his head, Berric's muffled voice broke the deathly silence.

"Begin the siege. Kill anything that lives and breathes. Save Turya for me."

At his command, Matheld and Lezalit raised their banner-bearing lances high into the air, crying the order to "Charge!" in unison. The dull roar of warlike screams soon faded in over the patter of raindrops on wet stone. Within seconds, water was not the only thing that fell from the sky in plentiful amounts. Volleys of arrows came shooting up from inside the castle, arcing down upon the advancing army like a storm of death from the heavens above. Shrieks and cries of torturous pain erupted amidst the bellowing of soldiers hungry for blood as arrows dug themselves deep into armor, shields, helmets, shoulders, and the hands of men in lines who hoisted sturdy siege ladders above their heads. Matheld and Lezalit led the charge to the front of the castle, with Rolf and Nizar besieging from either side, and men advancing on their own from the rear. Berric ran with his troops, taking the circular cavalry shield from his back in his left hand, and brandishing a war cleaver in the other.

He watched as the ladders rose against the battlements, and Nordic men endeavored in vain to push them away, for the weight of soldiers holding attached ropes to steady the beams was too great for them to force over. Swordsmen were already scrambling their way up and storming in over the looming grey stone. As chaos brewed atop the walls, Berric caught sight of a Sarranid warrior being cut down by three Nords at once as he tried to climb into the castle. His freshly mutilated corpse tumbled down the ladder, knocking away three warriors who were ascending behind him before splattering into a lifeless and battered heap upon contact with the ground.

Berric could see his forces beating back the defenders and pushing them screaming to the ground over the walls of the battlements as he stepped onto the bottom rung of a siege ladder, winning him a hearty cheer from the men holding the ropes. The distance between the hand and footholds was greater than a regular ladder, and big enough for one to fall through. This aspect, in addition to having a shield or sword in either hand, necessitated a slow and steady ascension. As he neared the last few feet to the top of the wall, he gasped in terrifying surprise as the body of a crossbowman tumbled backwards over the wall and fell twisting down the beams above him. Berric pressed down flat against the ladder, supporting himself with his heels and his chest on different rungs and covering the back of his head and neck with his shield. The weight of the falling body pounded hard on his back as it slammed down below his shoulders and continued to bounce and contort all the way to the ground. Breathing a sigh of relief, he continued up the last few steps and reached out with his shield arm to grab the wall.

In this most vulnerable position, Berric was met by a Nordic warrior who produced a bloodcurdling battlecry as he swung his bastard sword down over his head. Berric's heart leapt with fear, but his terror was promptly vanquished as the scimitar of a screaming Sarranid buried itself in the Nord's back. His sword clattered uselessly against the stone before sliding over and sailing downward to lodge its blade into the soft, wet earth. The swordsman who had just saved his life grabbed hold of Berric's armed wrist and pulled him up as he straddled his way over the wall and onto the battlements. Just as he gained footing and stood at the ready, his savior had been laid to rest at his feet. A crossbowman stood over the body, wielding a chipped dirk streaked with warm blood and a shield made of thin boards nailed together on supports and crudely painted with Jarl Turya's colors. Taking one look at the roaring dragon sigil upon Berric's surcoat, his triumphant expression gave way to one of utter terror.

Stepping back quickly, he raised the shoddy shield. Berric charged toward him, swinging his cleaver from the side. The wet boards of the cheap shield splintered and broke instantly with a sound like the crack of thunder as the razor edged blade sliced through the crossbowman's uncovered forearm. Blood poured in abundance from the long slice and sprayed over the tempered steel cleaver as Berric jerked it from the deep wound. The shield came away from the straps with the sword, and its broken planks fell to the ground with a heavy wooden clunk. The injured man reeled back in agony, clutching his red-soaked arm with the opposite hand as his dirk clattered against the stone. He continued to back away from the figure of immediate doom before him, but after only a few steps, his back was against the barrier. Peering over the edge to the ground below, his eyes flickered between two rather unpleasant options. Death by falling, or death by the sword.

His time to decide ran out quickly as Berric closed the distance between them, and he threw his bloodstained palms out in front of him. "Please! Please sir! I... I'll-"

He trailed off, at a loss for words. It was no matter, for no words could save him at this point. Berric cocked his arm and thrust the top corner of his cleaver's blade at the Nord's chest. It pierced through his soft leather jerkin, and his soft flesh, before breaking out through his back. Blood spurted from the wound and dripped down the barrier, washing away with the pouring rain as the dying man twitched and heaved labored gasps for breath. A horrid groan escaped his lips as Berric pulled the blade from his body, leaving it to drop backward and slip over the wall, plummeting to the ground below with a grotesque splash of red.

Berric turned back to the battle to see that his men were pushing the defenders down two sets of great stone steps leading into the courtyard and still massing over the walls, falling in to support. Nordic Huscarls and warriors poured through the massive wooden doors of the greathall, cutting down soldiers with each swing of their axes, but they still could not defeat the masses of desert swordsmen that converged upon them. Moving into the lines with his men, Berric descended the long stairway and stepped down into the courtyard. His men had begun raising their swords and shouting "For glory!" or "Death to the northmen!" among the excited chanting of victory. Pushing his way through the thick mob of warriors, Berric emerged in an empty circle in the center of the grounds where all the men had parted and cleared away the bodies and the steel. From the direction of the greathall, Lezalit and a Sarranid Mamluke pushed their way through the crowd, each restraining the Jarl by one of his arms as he struggled against them, furiously shouting obscenities.

"Get your filthy, hog-shagging hands off of me, you whore's sons! I'll gut every one of you bastards! I'll cleave the lowborn heads from your shoulders!"

They threw him face first into the mud, and Berric shook his head in solemn disapproval. The surviving soldiers laughed and hollered and spoke with ridicule as Turya got to his hands and knees and slowly arose to his feet. Berric watched him in silence, uttering not a sound, looking directly into his eyes. The once great nobleman had been reduced to nothing, and his face wore a scowl of absolute hatred, without a shred of fear.

"And you! You're the worst of all! I'll hang the mutilated pieces of your rotting corpse from the walls of this very castle when I'm done with you, you conniving, insolent cur!"

Berric frowned inside of his winged helm and looked to the fighters that surrounded him. "Somebody throw him a sword!" He commanded, and three blades were tossed into the ring, each one sinking into the mud. The Jarl selected a simple arming sword that had landed next to his feet, and a small kiteshield was handed to him by a reluctant Sarranid. Turya slid the shield onto his forearm, and moved his head and shoulders to loosen his muscles as he prepared for battle.

"Any final remarks before I cut you down where you stand, dog?"

Berric said nothing, but raised his roundshield and took his stance. Turya rushed at him with a fearsome thirst for blood, bellowing the murderous cry of a rabid beast. He pointed the sword forward, hand in line with his shoulder, and thrust the point into Berric's shield. The steel lodged itself into the tough wood, and Turya wrenched the tip free, pulling Berric's balance with it. Swinging the sword over his head, the Jarl came in with a vicious high cross, a perfect strike from the side. Berric staggered back and raised his arm to block the attack. Steel smashed against the lower half of his shield, twisting his arm and letting the swing continue to his hip. It created a long split in his surcoat, but the block had taken enough of the force for his armor to remain intact.

Stepping to the right, Berric kept a low stance. For a moment, the two men circled each other in silence. Yelling ferociously once again, Turya charged a second time, hefting his blade high over his head. As he brought the sword downward, Berric saw his opening. With a quick hop to the side, the Jarl's blade flew right past his opponent's body and into the mud. Turning on one foot, Berric kicked out with the other. His mail boot hammered against Turya's shield and sent him stumbling backward. Stepping toward the Jarl, he held his blade high and struck down with the same shot that his enemy had missed with only seconds before. The cleaver came down with a crushing force, slamming into Turya's shoulder. Only a few links of mail were split and some fell away from the rest. Nevertheless, it proved to be an excruciating blow to his shield arm. Stepping back, Berric regained his balance and raised his shield. The Jarl did the same. His arm wavered under the weight of the heavy wooden shield because of the terrible pain in his shoulder, but he maintained his guard.

Both men stepped forward and swung simultaneously. Their blades smashed together and bounced away with a sharp crash. Turya thrust forward with a low stab, and Berric moved his sword down and across with a motion reminiscent of a pendulum, knocking his enemy's blade to the side and retaliating by jerking his cleaver up into the Jarl's underarm. Blood dripped from between the links of chain and the Jarl groaned loudly through gritted teeth. Before Berric was able to bring his sword arm back, Turya reached across and bashed his wrist with a shield edge. A grisly snap sounded from Berric's arm and his blade dropped from his twisting fingers as he fell to his knees.

Not missing the opportunity, the Jarl brought his sword down from overhead. Berric managed a weak block with the shield on his uninjured arm, but he remained at a loss for a method of counterattack with a broken wrist. As Turya raised his hand again to launch to same, predictable strike, Berric leaped to his feet. Bending over, covering the back of his head with his shield, he charged forward, using the wings of his helmet as horns, goring Turya in the gut. The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and the sword from his grip. The Jarl collapsed onto his back, Berric dropping on top of him heavily with the combined weight of his body and his armor. Quickly getting to his knees, mounted over his stunned opponent, Berric threw a downward punch with his left hand. The edge of his shield collided with Turya's head. His spiked Nordic helm saved his life, but not without crushing his nose and leaving a savage gash across the middle of this face. Streams of blood began to pour and splatter from the Jarl's head as Berric continued to bring the shield edge down over and over again.

Within a few seconds, Jarl Turya's face had been reduced a mass of bloody fissures and canyons on the front of his head. The only identifiable feature that remained were a few cracked stumps of teeth that hadn't been completely broken off or beaten in. Berric heaved a deep sigh. His breath was heavy and labored, and the pain in his wrist was beginning to spread higher and higher up his arm. Pushing off the ground with the edge of his roundshield, Berric rose to his feet. His eyes settled on his close companion, Lezalit, who rushed from the crowd to meet him. Berric extended his crippled hand toward his friend. His vision began to blur and fade. He fell forward, unconscious, into the wet mess of mud and blood as the rain washed over him, cleansing him of the sweat and gore of battle.


End file.
